


Sing of Our Swords Glinting

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bounty Hunter Erik Lehnsherr, Bounty Hunter Logan, Hunters & Hunting, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Royal Charles Xavier, don't get your hopes up, even in an alternative history, eventually, it's a faux medieval fantasy setting, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Having won his throne, Prince Charles Xavier has put out a royal summons for bounty hunters of every description to clear up his land of Westchester. Erik and Logan are two such hunters, planning to enjoy a considerable profit. That is supposed to be where the story ends.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr/Logan, Erik Lehnsherr/Logan (X-Men)/Charles Xavier, Logan (X-Men)/Charles Xavier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34
Collections: X-Men Rare Pairs 2020





	Sing of Our Swords Glinting

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Mnemo_ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemo_ink/pseuds/Mnemo_ink) in the [xmenrarepairs20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmenrarepairs20) collection. 



> __  
>  **Prompt:**
> 
> Fantasy AU (with some Witcher influence)  
> Charles just won his title and the land of Westchester back. He aims to bring it to its former glory, the mansion, the fields, all of it. Problem is, there are a lot of monsters there now. So Charles places an ad for hunters/witchers. Logan and Erik need a job, one that pays well. Westchester is the perfect solution.
> 
> This was supposed to be a short fill, and then this happened. I am so sorry that the ships don't happen in the first chapter, and I am also sorry that this thing has _chapters_. That really wasn't meant to happen. This one stands on it's own but more preslash I'm afraid.
> 
> Very much Witcher-inspired without any actual crossover, because that's what I'm watching while writing this.

"Westchester is a piece of shit."

"It's a piece of shit that's paying good coin for easy work."

"So it's a boring piece of shit."

"Well, I suppose you could go feral in the woods awhile. Again. Leave the coin for me and I'll see if I'm feeling generous next time you decide to stumble back into civilization."

Rather than debate the definition of ‘civilization’, Logan bares his teeth in a snarl which has led so many to whisper of _the Wolverine_. Never one to be intimidated either by reputation or base threats, Erik simply raises an eyebrow. As expected, it’s all thunder without lightning, and he returns his attention to idly steering his horse through the forest, Logan grumbling just behind.

It isn't that he disagrees with Logan in the slightest. Up until very recently – less than a week ago, even – Westchester's primary claim to fame was its prodigious level of corruption. Everyone knew that to engage in dirty dealings and cavort with the law, all you had to do was head north of the Citadel until you started feeling grubby. There was a time and place for that sort of thing and this won’t be the first time Logan has sought easy money there, or Erik easy vengeance. The difference here lies in the the open advertisements for all manner of monster hunters, witchers, bounty hunters and simple entrepreneurial folk to descend upon the land, for allegedly altruistic reasons alone.

That Westchester's leaders seized and maintained power through unsavoury means came as no surprise. The revelation lay in the assertion that both the king and his offspring had been so incompetent for all their plotting that they'd left the true heir not only alive but in good health, within their own court no less. Not that Erik endorses political assassination for purely egotistical concerns; it just seems rather short-sighted. Small wonder then that this oversight, coupled with some unfortunate deaths and a small revolution, led to a coup filled with the sort of idealistic righteousness which endowed a simple enough bounty posting with enough eagerness to give Erik a headache in the street.

"What do you think the kid's like?" Logan asks, either of Erik or his horse.

"I doubt he's a 'kid'," Erik remarks, "given there's no talk of regents."

"No talk of anything," Logan grunts. "Secretive for some big crusader."

"It's not crusading when it's monsters," Erik tells him, keeping an eye on the path ahead of them.

"Keep telling yourself that, bub."

"Maybe we can test it next time you have one of your episodes." This time Erik does look around, to see Logan scowling at him again. Funny how that expression hasn't worn into permanence like a troll come dawn. Still, thinking Logan contains nothing more than pure animalistic fury has come in useful in the past, and Erik of all people knows that there's a person in there – a person who doesn't take kindly to such reminders.

After all, Logan has been the only reliable point for Erik for a long time now. Long absences, questionable moods, and yet the only one willing to stand firm at the side of a man many prefer to call 'murderer' rather than confront the truly grey nature of reality. When you spend months at a time hunting in the woods with nothing but your own claws, it apparently becomes that much harder to condemn someone who kills for justice.

Justice. Vengeance. Murder. Execution. They're all words which follow Erik as surely as his footprints. The songs which speak of Erik the Bloodborn, Erik the Bloodsoaked, Erik the Fury, are few and far between and more concerned with lurid descriptions than anything substantial. At least travelling alonside Logan, they're sometimes turned away from villages for reasons other than those unwilling to listen to another side of the story.

The rough forest path is growing dimmer as the little sunlight petering through the branches fades, through blazing orange and half-hearted pink.

"Feel like stopping?" Logan asks. It's a genuine question, for all that he delivers it with the same sarcastic bluntness as every other social interaction. With his senses, Logan can easily find his way through the forest at night, as sure as any animal. What Erik lacks in experimentally enhanced abilities, he makes up for in simple human determination. It's given them the edge many times when racing for the money to survive until the next hunt.

It's tempting, certainly. Erik dislikes waiting. However, from the words on the poster and the knowledge of Westchester's particular reputation for monsters, even if all the hunters of the land descend at once there will still be plenty left. Somehow Erik doubts this Xavier lordling will stop at the small fry. He might even try his hand at clearing out the nobles, which should make for some decent amusement should they arrive later.

Instead of voicing all of this, or any of it, Erik simply pulls his horse over at a decent clearing at dismounts. Logan snorts, but follows suit. It goes without saying that Erik builds the fire whilst Logan gathers fresh food. ‘Tools have their uses, confusing them confuses their use', as Shaw had said on many occasions. Shaw had been capable of being right, after all, about surprisingly many things. A shame, killing him, really. Necessary, though.

After the sort of healthy and nutritious dinner common to the wandering life when your coin has all but melted away, Logan takes out a cigar to light from the flames. "Unless you've got something else in mind?"

They potentially have a great deal of work ahead of them – the sort of work that can keep going almost indefinitely if you string it out and negotiate well, the way Erik can and Logan dismisses. Usually that mean Erik needs most of his wits about him, to properly judge the kind of person and what points to press. Still, this is bulk work, and such idealism can only suggest someone who knows absolutely nothing of the world.

He stretches, feeling his aching muscles from a day's ride. "Some exercise before bed, I think."

"Maybe for you," Logan says, teeth glinting in the firelight. "Me, I don't get soft. I'm the best there is at what I do."

"So the songs say," Erik says. "And if you sing a single one, I'll heave you into the fire, soft or not."

\---

They could investigate any tavern they like, Erik's sure of it. You can't give out a universal summons with universal promises of payment and still expect face-to-face confirmation of every applicant or every kill. As a result, when they ride through the very first border town of any name (that doesn't involve 'on-the-border' or 'on-the-hill' or Logan's suggestion of 'on-the-shit'), there's every indication that a plague of hunters has descended. Whatever begrudging acknowledgement Xavier gains from recognising the limits of his own presence, he swiftly loses in Erik's eyes as he watches three over-muscled men not so much drinking ale as bathing in it. Farmers, he shouldn't wonder, smelling a chance for a life away from the dung.

"Fucking stinks," Logan says. Erik hardly needs enhanced senses to know that he's right – indeed, it's times like this that Logan's supposed advantages in the trade become a burden. It's not the piss or the sweat – neither of them are the type to favour palaces – more the alcohol and the unmistakeable bloodied regret of poor slaying and retrieval. There's coin to be made from monster parts, everyone knows that; unfortunately internal organs very rarely react well to opportunistic puncturing.

"I suppose the princeling has other matters on his mind." Securing his borders, first of all, not to mention his own power. Far too many coups occur in the first week after the previous one. Still, Erik sees no reason to hide the way his lip curls at this sort of neglect of the more common residents of the land.

Possibly Logan's disgusted as well. It's hard to tell when his face is scrunched up like that, as if all his skin is migrating to try to protect his nose. "Where we stopping, then?"

Despite the population crisis, they'd find room anywhere (in the bar, at any rate), whether through violence or reputation, along with what little information they need as to the specifics of the hunt. Others have settled for far less. However, Erik has never settled for anything.

"We're not stopping here."

Logan glares at him. "So we didn't have to come through this shithole?"

Erik hums to himself. "I wanted an idea of the competition."

"What competition?"

"Precisely."

All too often, Erik and Logan are looked down upon for their chosen profession. Judged and ostracised for making something better of their lives than those lives had ever promised. Logan doesn't mind that, while he would say that Erik thrives on it. Here, though, in this moment, what they have done for many years marks them out as precisely what this land needs. What this Xavier wants, even if he doesn't realise it.

"Hunting?" Logan asks as the town inns and houses give way once more to huts and finally fields.

"Of a sort."

\---

It isn't raining and as a result Erik will not kill the first human being to come within five feet of them, though he can't say the same for Logan. It's cold in the castle bailey, the sky grim overhead, and the guards at each gate and those supposedly awaiting orders or training are casting them so many furtive glances that it must be rather hard on their necks. Having turned down increasingly pointed offers of the postern gate or perhaps the gatehouse, the two most-qualified monster hunters in the vicinity are left to sulk in the courtyard until someone can be bothered to inform Xavier of their presence. The fact that other points of contact have been offered is immaterial, as is the constant reminder that there is no need to actually meet with the prince when the summons left very little doubt as to the nature of the assignment.

From the tight smile on the faces of some, together with his own assumptions, Erik infers they must have had a string of unsavoury visitors in the last few days, either for work or conquest. Nevertheless, neither Erik nor Logan carries any ambition in the diplomatic sphere. Erik in particular knows that if they had been allowed inside the keep, he would be slowly losing his teeth now surrounded by luxury and pettiness. Princely politics, mere words and flirtation, carry more annoyance than something so inconsequential deserves.

"I think that guard's waiting for you to grab his sword and run him through with it," Logan says, not bothering to be subtle about gesturing to the man in question, who manages to go even paler than before.

"He probably thinks I could do it with my mind." It's not the worst rumour about him. Sometimes Erik even thinks it might be true.

"Wish you could, bub." A puff of thick smoke obscures the air as Logan exhales. They've been waiting long enough for Logan to deem it worthwhile to light one of his ridiculous cigars. If it stops him leaving, all the better.

Abruptly, Logan's head jerks to the side. "We've got company." His nostrils flare and then he smirks, relaxed enough for Erik to tense on instinct. "Or you do."

Frowning, Erik looks around more slowly. Fortunately, he's had the sort of life which makes him hard to shock and as a result his face struggles with it. As the redheaded woman approaches them, he can only imagine how her smile would widen further into mockery should he look anything but unmoved at the sight of her.

"I thought you two would be out hunting already," Mystique says.

Logan snorts, drawing in another breath of smoke to release at the opportune moment. Just barely, Erik does not scowl at him. Perhaps a decade or more previously, Mystique would have let something like that pass; now, however, she's a far better read of character than Erik ever taught her. Funny, the way that a casual favour rebounds over and over. Most things in Erik's life come back to haunt him, even when he kills them and leaves the corpse with a sword through the chest. Logan is simply one of the more pleasant exceptions.

"You're here to see the princeling as well?" he asks, keeping his voice light as befits such roundabout talk of business. They've competed for contracts before. Even though there's plenty to go around, Mystique is so very good at smiling in all the right places in all the right ways. She might have beaten him to it, to this plan of his.

Sure enough, she smirks, and Erik resists the simple instinct to shift in place. "You could say that."

"What would you say?" Logan asks, unexpectedly joining the conversation. Erik lets his eyes slide sideways, to see that Logan has actually removed his cigar from his mouth, lips now twitching to the side in a way which means Logan has spotted something, something that must derive in some manner from those gods-damned senses of his. It's the light in his eyes of taking a peek behind the curtain. Erik can only assume it's because so often Logan doesn't try to read people at all.

Mystique tosses her hair to the side as she places a hand on her hip, more like she's posing in a song than standing talking to two colleagues in a dull grey stone bailey. Her hair and the blue paint on her shoulders give the only colours to be seen, so bright you'd never suspect her gift for disappearing. Perhaps that's why Erik isn't as tense about the competition despite it all, experiencing merely the same resigned annoyance as whenever he catches the golden eye of a lady-in-waiting a breath away from a lucrative client or a barmaid who already knows every piece of gossip going. If Mystique has elected for such an obvious appearance, as herself, they might almost be on a level-playing field.

That is, he thinks they might be, until she says with relish, "That princeling's my brother."

Silence, as far as you can have it fall with the distant whistle of the wind and the muttered conversations of the guards.

Logan hasn't declared her a liar, which means that this has to be at least a part of the truth. Erik sits back a little on the bench, rearranging himself as he rearranges his image of the girl he once found stealing scraps an innkeeper had deemed barely fit for his pigs. It does have that storylike quality to it: a princess in rags. Rather frustratingly, it suits her.

"You abandoned him?"

The pose doesn't alter in its key aspects. Nevertheless, even one of the guards would be able to notice the way her body stiffens, her jaw firming, her eyes narrowing. "I had to leave."

"Without him."

"It's – " She hisses. "He told me to go."

"Making this a charming reconciliation?" Erik asks, spreading his hands as if to embrace such love and devotion. At least his smile is sweeter than Logan's chuckle.

Slowly Mystique shakes her head – not a denial, rather disbelief, with an anticipation which makes Erik's smile fade just a little. "You want Charles' coin? One word from me and you won't step foot in this land again."

Mystique has a tendency to exaggerate. What she doesn't do is lie wholesale – not when she's appearing as herself, like this. "Is that why you're here? To escort us?"

"You might say that." She pauses, then sighs and relaxes. A little of the tension in Logan's body eases, just a touch. "Charles sent me to fetch you. Apparently nobody told him you were here, before me."

Very carefully, Erik stands, so that his height only unfolds itself gradually. The benefit of many years of acquaintance pays off as Logan waits until he's fully upright before unrolling to his feet himself. The whole while, Mystique's eyes never leave Erik's, even when he's standing over her.

"And what do we call you when you're a princess?"

"Around Charles?" She nods. "My name is Raven."

\---

Erik expects to be led into the keep, to the usual great hall full of less than great nobles squabbling amongst themselves. If he and Logan can agree on nothing else, it's that they'd much rather be up to their eyes in acidic intestines than listening to that drivel. Thus, it's both a surprise and a relief to find their steps taking a different path, along to a much plainer yet solid oaken door. Better yet, there's very little bleed of sound, and a glance at Logan shows a man far less apprehensive about what might lie beyond.

Mystique – the princess Raven – lays a hand on the door and looks back at them. "Be nice," she says with a smile, and pushes it open.

What lies beyond, to Erik's surprise, is a library. Not that he's never seen a library before, or even a library in a castle; he's simply more used to them looking a little more...neglected. Particularly given the reputations of the Marko family. Somehow Erik doubts this room has seen very much use in the last generation – the abundance of monsters in Westchester also speaks to a lack of interest in general education, the scarcity of wandering warlocks or hunters, not to mention a decidedly hostile attitude towards intelligence of any kind – and yet, before them, are shelves upon shelves of books, leather-bound and colourful and golden, stretching forward and above them. The sort of library Erik might have killed for, in his youth. Hopefully not the sort of library he'll have to kill _in_ , for all that it wouldn't be the first time.

He's distracted, even more so as he steps inside and the closest titles catch at his eyes. Politics and history, books he hasn't seen since Shaw's rather perfunctory lectures on education, back when he hadn't quite decided on Erik's destiny (before Erik had decided his). A name he recognises, _En Sabah Nur_ , enough of an image to make him pause, lost in an entirely different library.

"Ah, good of you gentlemen to join me," he hears as an afterthought, an echo. He's still there, learning about how one death might change a destiny. Shaw telling him of the necessity of murder, of the value of assassins. A knife tossed lightly in the air.

"You're the prince, then?" Logan is asking. "Not quite what I expected."

"Believe me, I'm more than aware of other people's expectations. They're welcome to them, too. Gives me room to think."

_Room to think._

Erik closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head, just a breath before he feels a touch against the leather on his arm. "Erik?" Mystique calls softly.

It would be polite to reassure her, particularly given her new significance in this plan of theirs. Instead, Erik shrugs her off. Diplomacy has never been his strong suit, much to Shaw's despair. Gritting his teeth, he wrenches his mind back into the present as he would wrench a sword out of an undead's spine.

Mystique is watching him; so are two men, whom he strides towards rather than face her. Logan is frowning just a little, differently to usual, with an odd small smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth. The other man is seated, and it takes Erik too long (wondering why position a chair away from any desks, off-centre, angled in such a manner towards Logan) to realise that his seat has wheels. So that's what the 'weakling' talk concerned. This is why Erik prefers first-hand experience.

"Charles Xavier," the man says, leaning forwards and holding out a hand, as if they were merely humble acquaintances on the road. Erik isn't prone to shaking hands and he isn't willing to start now. The prince must have at least a little skill with people, since he drops his hand within barely a second and yet projects no sense of insult. "I understand you two gentlemen are here concerning my land's issues with monsters."

 _My land._ Erik's teeth bare themselves without conscious thought. "I assume you're referring to the fact that you have one of the worst and most varied infestations I've heard tell of in modern times." He pauses, making a show of tilting his head. "I suppose there might be some more legendary accounts. The slaying of the fifty thousand, perhaps."

He hears Mystique hiss behind him. He doesn't dare glance at Logan. Instead he keeps his gaze fixed on Charles, daring the prince to blink first. They aren't here as common vassals or braying hunters. They have business, and somehow, from the way the prince leans his head on his hand and lets his fingers rest against his forehead, he thinks Charles knows it as well.

Neither of them blink. Until Charles suddenly smiles.

"My stepfather did leave the place in something of a mess," he says, sitting up, "to say nothing of my stepbrother. Still, I believe I did make the terms of the contract fairly clear in the postings? Or did you need to clarify the details? A clearer reading, perhaps?"

He saw Erik looking at the books. He must have done. Erik can feel his hackles rising, as if he's the closest thing to an animal in this room.

"Yeah, we saw what your postings did," Logan says, before Erik can do something as foolish as lunging forwards (not even understanding why he wants to). He points not towards the door but slightly to the side, undoubtedly a straight line to the town they passed through. "Funny way of running a kingdom, inviting every last piece of shit in. Working out real well for your citizens." He pauses, then smirks, producing his cigar from seemingly nowhere and biting down on it. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I'd thank you not to fill the library with that smell," Charles says, almost absent-mindedly. "And yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

"I told him not to," Mystique says. "I told him what would happen."

"Yes, you did," Charles agrees.

Usually Logan only inhales through his nose so obviously as an intimidation tactic, or when their lives are at risk. This seems like neither occasion, and yet there's nothing subtle about how he breathes in. There's a slide to his smile, an angle Erik isn't used to seeing in contract negotiations, and the brush of unfamiliarity itches at his neck. Usually Logan looks to Erik. Now his attention is fixed on Charles.

"So who are you looking for, Chuck?"

Charles doesn't look angry at the informality, nor uncomfortable from trying to appear unbothered. Instead, he glances at Erik, those fingers coming up to his forehead again. "I believe Master Lehnsherr is going to tell us."

 _Lehnsherr._ There's no point to Erik's family name. No 'Sir' or 'Lord', certainly not 'Prince'. Erik is no Master of smithing or carpentry, or anything else which boasts a guild with its awards and apprenticeship. Erik carries his titles of Bloodsoaked and so forth because there's nothing else worth mentioning. His mastery lies not in the sorts of skills commoners like to laud. It's hardly his concern that his whispered names do not suit him the way Logan embraces the Wolverine.

Charles knows precisely who they are. Presumably Raven told him. And here he is, pretending they're all friends. Well, Erik can work with that.

"There's no denying you need hunters," Erik says. "You might require a great deal of them, for a few weeks. But some of these creatures will take years to root out, and you can't afford to keep your borders so open for that long." He gestures between himself and Logan. "We have no affiliations with other lands. Hire us, officially. We'll rid you of your monsters and your guests – for a fee, naturally."

"Naturally." Charles tilts his head towards Logan. "I take it you're in agreement? No chance of one wishing to take the money for himself? Understand that we're still in a fairly fragile political moment; I can't take time for my appointments' jealousies."

It's exactly what he expects to hear, and yet Erik still feels something in him relax as Logan says, "We're in this together, Chuck."

"Charles," the prince says, with no real heat. Erik wonders whether he's even capable of such a thing. "Very well, I'll make you a deal. Go slay me a monster, as per the contract, and if you impress me, we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement."

"'If'?" Logan chuckles. "You know what they say about me? I'm the best at what I do."

"And you?" Charles asks of Erik.

"They'd much rather not talk about me at all." Erik turns to leave, pausing only briefly at the look on Mystique's face – the narrowed eyes, the lifted chin. "I expect you to have our appointment ready on our return, princeling."

"Technically I'm a king," Charles tells him. "Coronation permitting, of course."

"'Of course'." What sort of a prince delays his own coronation? By all rights, Charles should have received the crown before a single revolutionary washed the blood off their hands. Leaving it this long, it breeds the promise that he won't last. It's weak. It's risky. Putting the affairs of the kingdom first hardly receives respect in a land such as this.

Out in the corridor, he realises what was on the table behind Charles, what he had clearly been working on before they entered: maps. Maps and ledgers, figures with a quill on one side. The scroll on the edge might have been a family tree. The sort of information you'd expect to see in the vicinity of a vizier, not a prince.

Mystique stayed behind, the princess Raven no doubt discouraging Charles of the agreement. Logan, however, walks at his shoulder, still smiling so strangely.

"You reckon we're staying, bub?"

"I intend to do so." He refuses to let a princeling coward smile so smugly in his face – although even in his mind the 'coward' fits poorly, like ill-tailored clothes. He needs more information, from Mystique or anyone else he can find. There's a story here, about a crippled child who becomes a prince whilst keeping his hands clear of the bloodshed. Of the princess who flees then returns just in time, to stand at her brother's side rather than claiming the throne for herself.

When they're reunited with their horses, Erik swings himself easily into the saddle with his mind already weighing up potential targets, yet Logan is slow to follow. Instead he seems caught in a moment of his own, petting the muzzle of his own steed without seeing her in the slightest.

"Do you two require some time alone?" Erik asks, a joking tone left unattempted.

Logan nods, very slightly. "Could be," he murmurs. Then his eyes finally focus as he looks up at Erik, teeth glinting. "Let's go bag ourselves a prize, then. Something to impress a prince."

Erik can't help glancing back, at the castle rearing at their backs. "Somehow I doubt he impresses easily."


End file.
